The Healer
by Tianis
Summary: Eomer is fighting for king and country. But he also fights for his heart. Can he ever hope to serve both? Or will one forfeit? During LOTR.
1. Meetings

**One**

Rohan's plains were forever rich in splendour during the summer. The long grasses were coloured by heavy purple heads of lavender, yellow primroses, the blues of larkspurs, forget-me-nots and cornflowers, white dog-roses, pale pink soapwort and the bright pink of harlequins. Horses grazed here and there, their coats glossy and their muscles strong. The silvery passages of the rivers sliced across the plains, and Fangorn sat heavy and dark. The mountains were tinged with purple and edged with snow on their tall speaks. Edoras shone gold and copper in the everlasting sunlight, and the people of Rohan felt at peace.

The dawn had come bright to Rohan, sparking the snow-capped mountains coral pink and lavender and leaden blue. The carved horse heads on each house in Edoras ignited gold, and the plains were turned emerald. Arìanna rose early, checking on the sleeping form of her grandmother before breaking her fast and leaving to see Caradien. The stables were still, the sweet smell of hay and horse strong on the air, and the sun slanted in golden rays, and there was little sound apart from the lazy shifting of the horses. From a window, light spilled onto the golden back of Caradien; the palomino coat glistening magnificently. She snickered and lifted her head when she saw her mistress and Arìanna smiled.

"Good morning, Carrie," she said, running a gentle hand over the silky neck and burying her face into the flaxen mane. She picked up a brush and began to methodically and slowly groom her horse, all the while murmuring nonsense words. It soothed the drowsy horse, and the velvety eyes were hooded and her square head drooping as she dozed. This was Arìanna's paradise, her respite from the enclosing walls of her home, which she shared with her brother Frinan and her grandmother Freyja. She had never gone far from home – trapped by her own promises and her brother's commitments – and so resented any enfolding places.

Éomer thought he was alone with Firefoot when he first stepped into the stables, but quickly noticed movement in the stall opposite his dapple grey. It was a lady, her hair braided and her dress made from cream with a sapphire bodice. She whispered to her horse, all the while grooming. He smiled as he levelled with the woman. Her hair was satiny and the colour of honey. Éomer, with his golden-brown eyes, dark blonde hair and even darker eyebrows and beard, studied her sharply in a few seconds, sweeping his gaze up and down as he approached the stall.

"Good morning, milady," he said, startling the woman out of her nonsensical words.

"Good morning, milord," she replied, dipping her knees in a brief curtsey and bowing her head. "It is good to see one up so early to tend to his horse." She had blue-green eyes and freckles over her nose and cheekbones, her skin fair.

"Indeed. I had thought I were the only one," he said mildly, picking up a brush.

"Oh no, milord. I often rise early," she smiled, and went back to her work, starting to pick knots from the horse's pale mane with a comb, and murmuring again. It seemed to be a mix of the common tongue, their language and various others words put in. He was curious to hear more, and so strained his ears.

After a while in silence between them, with only the shuffling of hooves and the sound of brushing to accompany them, Éomer spoke again.

"Forgive my rudeness, but what language do you speak?" The woman blushed.

"Oh, it is just nonsense, milord." She looked young – no more than twenty winters.

"But am I right in hearing the Elven tongue?" This time, the woman blushed even further, hiding her head. Her hair fell in a soft sheet to cover her face.

"Yes, milord. My grandmother taught it to myself and my brother."

"Then, you are Freyja's granddaughter," he said – Freyja was famous for her healing. She had travelled far and wide in her youth, and rumoured to have spent some time with the elves in Rivendell, learning their practices. It was widely known that she spoke the language – and was often ridiculed by the women gossipers for it.

"Yes, milord."

"Enough with the courteous words!" he exclaimed. "My name is Éomer, and I prefer it to the simpering _milord_'s I get from every woman and man I meet. Tell me, what is your name?"

"Arìanna, mi– Éomer. It means silver lady in Elvish. My grandmother insisted that I be called after the Eldar People. My brother, Frinan, was after my father. He once rode with Théoden's éored."

"And now your brother rides with Théodred. I know him," Éomer smiled. "He is a skilled bowman."

"Aye, so I have heard," she shrugged, concentrating on her horse's mane. "I would wish to ride also, but I have learnt my mother's trade, which she in turn learnt from my grandmother." Her voice was bitter with regret.

"A healer?" Éomer was interested, and leant on the wall of the stall. "You know the Elvish remedies."

"Some," Arìanna shrugged evasively.

"Then I shall be calling on you if I am ever in need!" he laughed. "I hear Freyja has delegated her role. How goes she?" There was silence.

"She is well," Arìanna replied tightly. There was a pause, in which Éomer studied her closely, and she steadfastly avoided his gaze.

"I have not seen her about much," he provided tactfully.

"No. She prefers the coolness of her apothecary room. She helps me in my learning of the trade. She does not need to leave the house much. Not to visit Meduseld, anyhow, now Gríma is there," Arìanna said abruptly. Her comb dug through knots angrily, and Éomer did not trust her temper further. There was silence, as he finished grooming Firefoot. He picked up a saddle and bridle.

"Well, I am riding through the eastfold today and must leave." She looked at Caradien's neck under demurely lowered lashes.

"I am sorry if I was too oppressive in my words, milord. There are just some things I cannot talk about. I feel I spoke out of turn."

"I had told you to call me Éomer," he replied, his voice not stern, but gentle and sympathetic. The timbre of his voice was deep and intense. She raised her eyes to his, and found an intake of breath catching in her chest as she met with eyes the amber colour of an eagle's, soft in colour and emotion. He smiled. She smiled tentatively back. "You need not fear losing your turn with me. My ears are for my use." His glanced was meaningful as he tightened the girth. "I will let you in peace. I am glad to have met you, Arìanna."

"Aye, and I am glad to have met you, Éomer," she said, curtseying again. She watched him lead his horse out of the stables, sighing heavily and wanting desperately to run after him. Caradien snickered softly, brushing her silky nose into the outstretched palm of her mistress.

………

That evening, Éomer sat at the high table with the other Marshals. Below them, on long trestle tables, spread the éoreds of Théoden. To his left sat Théodred, the king's son. His chair was high-backed and ornate, and his platter copper, trimmed with gold. But the prince touched nothing of the food, and barely sipped the goblet of wine before him. Éomer ate nervously, glancing across to his cousin frequently. Finally, he leant over and asked quietly:

"What ails you, cousin?" Théodred's eyes flickered with a dark mirth, before he replied gravely;

"Only what has ailed me these past months. The orcs grow more confident, and Gríma is pouring more poison into my father each day."

"And what of Léola?" he smirked, sharing a smile with Théodred.

"She goes well." His face darkened again. "But our time together is somewhat jaded with all this." He waved his hand to encompass the hall. Éomer shrugged.

"Cousin, not even I can help you in this turmoil." Théodred smiled.

"Aye, but it is good to talk. I plan to drive the herds in the westfold nearer to Edoras. Would you aid me?"

"Of course. We may start on the morrow, if you will." Silently, Éomer decided that an early rise would give him a chance to see the mysterious Arìanna again. Which reminded him… he rose and passed down the aisle separating the table of Théodred's éored and his own. Frinan sat quietly, preferring to observe the events around him rather than join in. Éomer rested a hand on his shoulder, and the man glanced up.

The pale skin was like to his sister's, but his strong build denied their relationship.

"Milord?" he questioned, and few of his companions grew silent.

"I met your sister, Arìanna, today in the stables," he said. Frinan broke into a smile.

"Aye. She is often there." Then his face darkened. "I am sorry if she said anything to offend you – I am afraid she has the Rohirrim fiery spirit, and a truth-speaking mouth that says more than it should." Éomer smiled.

"She did not offend me," he paused, then added. "She is a fine woman, and you should be proud." Frinan beamed from ear to ear.

"I am," he replied, before Éomer left the hall and stood on the terrace, looking out over his beloved plains, the dark teeth of the mountains silhouetted against the inky black sky.

He folded his arms over his chest, intending to take his thoughts to the herds he would be tracking and driving tomorrow. Instead, Éomer thought of Arìanna and her long, flowing hair. It was the colour of honey, of clear yellow wine, even of the delicate petals of wild primroses. Her eyes shone with cornflower-blue and jade-green, an intense yet soft whirl that made him nearly senseless and insane with need. Her long, smooth limbs, temptingly hidden in the cream and sapphire dress. He had known physical desire before – the women in Meduseld were of the highest beauty – but this drove him wild. He craved the seemingly plain woman. He could swear he had seen her before. And perhaps he had, about Edoras, on her errands. But oddly, it felt as if there was another connection to her. Her voice was silky and familiar, and her stance so confident, it raged at some half-lost memory in desperation.

- - -

Arìanna lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her room impassively. A crack of moon-filled night spilt onto her bed through the half-closed window. She sighed, passing a hand over her eyes as she tried to lose the thoughts that doggedly clung to her mind. She envisioned Éomer – proud and keen, with a fierce, clear gaze like that of eagles and the long-legged pace of a hunting cat. His shoulders were wide, and his body strong and muscular. His skin was sun-kissed from his duties across the plains, and his hands callused from the work of years. Her heart pounded in her chest, so loud she feared that her grandmother would hear it the room the next door. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, afraid of the dreams to come, but more afraid of a sleepless night, haunted by the king's nephew.


	2. The Herd

**Two**

The next morning was the same. Éomer walked into the stables to find Arìanna already there, tending to her horse. Her face visibly brightened as he appeared, and he felt a jump in his stomach at her fresh features.

"Good morning, Arìanna."

"Good morning, Éomer," she replied courteously. "I see you have risen early again. Are you leaving for the westfold?"

"I am. Théodred wants the herds moved." He picked up a saddle and buckled the girth on Firefoot as he spoke. "He asks for my help. It will take a few days, but it is not an arduous job."

"Aye. Frinan is staying with his éored to make sure the horses don't go back during the night."

"We're only there during the day," he answered, and they continued in pleasant talk for a while, until Éomer returned to the subject of Frinan. "We spoke last night and he seems a nice enough lad. He works hard?"

"Yes. He is always home, determined to look after us!" she laughed, the sound as rich and new as a cold, clear mountain stream running over smooth pebbles.

"Ah, but Freyja and yourself seem so capable." There was a hesitation in her voice as Arìanna replied;

"But my grandmother is ill, Éomer. And I cannot do two chores at once, though I wish it." He frowned, recalling her words the previous morning.

"But, you said that Freyja went well." Arìanna blushed and turned to him, her eyes searching his.

"I cannot lie. I believe she dies, Éomer. My respite is with my horse, Caradien, because it breaks my heart to see her frailty. The same frailty that stole my mother and seeks to claim her." Éomer was startled by her outburst, and even more surprised to see tears shining in Arìanna's eyes.

It surprised Arìanna too. She hadn't even spoken about it with her brother. But, standing now, in the quiet, peaceful, stables, with the king's nephew, she felt she had to say it. The words hung in the air, and she could no longer deny the truth. The truths that haunted her – that her mother was really dead, and her grandmother was dying. She hung her head in overwhelming shame. Her nervous demeanour of before returned as she buried herself in grooming Caradien, who seemed to sense her mistresses distress.

"I am sorry, Arìanna, to disturb you so. If I had known –"

"How could you have guessed?" she laughed bitterly. "Even my brother does not realise the severity of our situation. Oh, please, Éomer, I pray for you not to tell him." He saw the pleading in her eyes, her emotion so openly displayed.

"My ears are my own," he said reassuringly. "I could not, and would not, breathe a word." She smiled thankfully.

"Thank you, Éomer. You are truly noble." He laughed aloud at this, and she blushed, but he reassured her of his jest, and then bade her fare well.

"Until I see you again. Perhaps on the morrow?" Arìanna bowed her head in a nod.

"I shall be sure of it."

………

Firefoot pranced beneath Éomer's steady hands as he scanned the landscape before him. He stood on a hillock of tough tundra – thick, brittle grasses, dotted with yellow stonecrops. He felt restless and distracted, and it was reflected in his horse's nervy movements. His éored waited patiently for his command – but none came forth.

"Milord," came a grave voice. He turned to his second-in-command, Éothain. "The prince's éored closes in on the herds in the Westemnet. He calls for your help to drive them nearer to Edoras now." His gaze was steady, pressing Éomer with the importance of commanding his troop.

"Then we shall ride to his side," Éomer replied, digging in his heels and leading the way down the grassy slope towards the northern corners of the westfold.

The herd was a twenty-minute ride from the Fords of Isen. It was one of the biggest that Rohan had – near on sixty horses; mares, stallions, and foals roiled in a near-panicked frenzy as Théodred's éored drove them southwards in a direct line. Éomer cantered towards his cousin, hailing him with a raised hand and booming voice. Théodred replied, a broad smile on his face. The wind had tossed his hair about, and sparked his eyes brightly. Éomer instructed for his éored to spread out and help the drive. He studied his cousin closely as they rode, pausing only briefly for food and drink. None could deny Théodred his good looks. He was the pride of the king, and the women swooned at his charmed feet. He was diplomatic and strong – a good leader, and, one day, a good king. Éomer hoped that duty would not call too soon, though by Gríma's tongue, it would be so. His poisoning was weakening his uncle – making him feeble and susceptible to corruption. It angered Éomer to see Théoden King in such a way – wizened and weak before his time.

In that day, the herd was driven southwards and some way eastwards. Their progress was good, and spirits were high. Éomer had the opportunity to speak to Frinan as they were collecting firewood for the night-watch. Frinan had a bundle of wood that threatened to topple precariously, and Éomer took pity on him. He took some of the wood before greeting Frinan.

"It has been a good day," he said amicably. Frinan grinned.

"Yes, Éomer. It has," he shrugged, the wood rattling ominously before he threw them unceremoniously on the floor. "I hope the night will not bring too much drama. We are still to close to the Fords for me to feel comfortable." Éomer frowned and looked in the direction of the Isen.

"I agree, Frinan. But there is naught to do about it now. Just rest, take your watch, and my éored and I will return on the morrow."

"Thank you, Éomer. You are a good marshal," Frinan grinned as he struck flint to stone for a spark. Éomer laughed.

"Nay. I am simply a good leader."

- - -

Arìanna had ridden Caradien far, but she still could not stray because of her grandmother. Freyja had woken that morning with a bad cough, and when Arìanna had handed her a handkerchief, she saw spots of blood on the white cloth when Freyja coughed. It concerned her, as even the tea she had brewed had not eased her grandmother's suffering. Yet… her mind wandered. She was sat on a hillock, twirling a simblëmyne between forefinger and thumb. A breeze tugged at her emerald green skirts, and grazed her hair over her face. Caradien grazed nearby, copper-coloured buckles clinking slightly as she moved one foot at a time. Her mind roved over the imprinted memories of Éomer. His scent that was heady and oddly familiar, his feline stance, the soothing timbre of his voice as he spoke and the unexpected burst of his laughter – that doused the soul in a cool, clear freshet. She shook her head to free the thoughts, and let the delicate white petals of the flowers drop to the ground as she stood. Whistling sharply to call Caradien, she turned her eye back to Edoras, and her sick grandmother.

"Freyja?" Arìanna called softly as she entered the dim cool of the house. Freyja had refused the use of 'grandmother' from a young age, as she said it made her feel old. There was no answer. "Freyja?" she called a little louder, peering in her bedroom. The bed was unmade, she must be in the apothecary room, which was at the back of the house. She opened the door, and a blast of cold air hit her. Freyja sat on her stool, grey-haired head bent over a pestle and mortar. She was muttering and coughing to herself. "Freyja," Arìanna tutted. "It is too cold for you to be up. Come back to bed, and I will make you tea."

"No. No tea, Ari. I am perfectly healthy," replied the stern voice that had haunted Arìanna's footsteps from childhood. Arìanna laughed, sitting alongside Freyja and watching the healer ground up herbs expertly.

"As you wish Freyja." Freyja coughed into the back of her hand. It was wrinkled and shrunken, but no less deft in its work. As she retrieved the pestle, Arìanna saw the bright red spots of blood, and her heart sank. She rose sharply. "It is too cold in here. I will warm myself by the hearth," she said shortly, and strode from the room. In the kitchen, she sank weakly into a chair and buried her face in her hands. There, she sobbed long and unashamedly. Her tears burnt her pale cheeks, and flushed them red. Her eyes stung, and her fingers were wet and salty. Dusk drove around the house, but still she cried. She cried for the aching loneliness she felt in her heart, and she cried for stubborn grandmother – who was strong in her youth, and wilful in her age.


	3. Losing

**Three**

Éomer watched from lowered eyes as Arìanna came into the stables. She seemed downcast, her head bowed as she carried a pail of water to Caradien's trough.

"Good morning, Arìanna."

"Good morning, Éomer," she replied. Her voice was listless, devoid of all emotion.

"How goes it?"

"Well, Éomer. How goes the herding?" She picked up a brush and ran it across Caradien's flank. Éomer paused before placing the saddle on Firefoot's back.

"Well also. Is something troubling you?" There was no reply, as she turned her back on him. It was as hurtful as any of the most vicious of rejections, and it stung him. Without another word, he opened the stable door and led Firefoot out. "Good day to you, Arìanna," he said bitingly, as if her name were an insult.

………

Two days he had known her. Two days. It was no time at all. Éomer rode alone at the left flank of the herd. There were others ahead and behind, but they kept a courteous distance. Even Théodred seemed anxious over his cousin. It was not typical of the Marshal to be so brooding and preoccupied. Éomer tutted to himself, slackening Firefoot's reins to give him his head. Something was different about her though. Oh, not in the conventional sense in that she was individual and new. No – it was more that she _wasn't_ new that bothered him most. She was familiar. Comforting. He shook his head. Impossible. They were driving the horses further east towards Edoras now. It was an easy manoeuvre as the herd didn't seem to mind at all. Frinan was ahead of Éomer, shouting instructions and jibes at his friends. All about Éomer was ease and merriment. Théodred looked less worn than usual, and had even broken into a wide smile once and laughed. He and Léola had been hidden most of the previous night, and the effects had remained most of the day. It struck Éomer that he hadn't bedded a woman in a while. It wasn't unusual as such, but it struck him as strange. There were plenty of offers from the Meduseld women, but none had appealed. He wondered at why. But, to many, the answer was obvious. He desired more. He was twenty-six.

- - -

Arìanna sat by the bedside of her grandmother. The old face was pale, and the body weak and thin. She pressed her hand to Freyja's forehead, and found it to be burning hot. She sighed and stood. Leaving the house, she went to the barracks of the royal éoreds. She knocked nervously on the door, and when someone answered, she announced steadily:

"Is there someone to send a message to Théodred's éored for me?"

"Aye. What would you have them say?"

"That Frinan must return immediately to his grandmother's bedside. She grows weaker and it is believed that she will not live out the night." At that, the man's face grew grave.

"Indeed. A messenger will be sent in haste." She dipped her head politely, and returned to the deathbed of her beloved grandmother. She sat on the rickety old chair, hand resting on Freyja's cold fingers. She bowed her head, and let pearly tears fall to the floor. How could this all have happened so quickly? That morning she had been overcome with joy at the sight of Éomer, despite how she had acted. When she had returned, she found her grandmother's fever had worsened, and she could not rise from bed. Her illness had taken a hold on her body once before, but this time its ferocity had overpowered the old woman –Caradien had been left a little neglected as Arìanna tended to her grandmother, but to no avail. Neither bathing nor tea had broken the fever, and now she had found it impossible to wake Freyja.

"Oh, Freyja. When did this happen? When did you become old and frail?" She rested her forehead on Freyja's hand. "When did the healer become the sick? And the young become the carers?" She kissed a knuckle and sat back up. "And now, we just wait."

………

A messenger galloped frantically over the plains towards the herd, making many of the driven horses spook. He drew up sharply next to Théodred, and Éomer drew close to hear what was said.

"The Lady Arìanna asks from her brother, Frinan, to return with all haste. The healer, Freyja, is dying." Théodred's face darkened.

"How long?" he asked.

"Not long. She says she doubts even the night," the messenger's voice was husky with urgency. Éomer suddenly understood Arìanna's cold mood.

"Send Frinan home at once," Éomer urged. "Arìanna will need him." Théodred nodded in agreement.

"Of course. I will tell Frinan myself." He nudged his horse towards Frinan, whose face paled as he was told the news. At once, he sped away over the plains towards Edoras, which was naught but a dot on the horizon, beneath a canopy of purple mountains.

………

He arrived and threw the reins of his horse to a nearby squire, the stallion barely coming to a stand still as he leapt off and ran to his house. He was met at the door by a tearful Arìanna. She stood, leaning on the doorpost, waiting. Her grief-stricken face told all, and it took all Frinan's strength not to fall to his knees. She flew into his arms and buried her face in his neck as she sobbed uncontrollably.

"Where… where is she?" he asked throatily.

"In her room. It's not long." She took his hand and led him through. The room was oppressively silent, the drapes drawn over the bright sunlight, and Freyja lay under the covers, a frail body, bereft of life. Frinan knelt by his grandmother's side.

"Ai, grandmother," he murmured, taking her hand in his. He smelt of horses and leather, and he had spread mud through the house from his boots, but Arìanna cared little. It stung her heart to hear him say those words. The words closed life from Freyja, admitting her imminent death. She stumbled to the chair, smothering her sobs with a hand.

"Oh, Frinan. What are we to do?" she asked. Frinan didn't take his eyes from the still face of his grandmother as he answered;

"Everything will be all right. You'll see."

………

"_Héo naefre wacode dægréd_

_Tó bisig mid dægeweorcum_

_Ac oft héo wacode sunnanwanung_

_Thonne nihtciele créap geond móras_

_And on thaere hwile_

_Héo dréag thá losinga_

_Ealra thinga the héo forléas_

_Héo swá oft dréag hire sáwle sincende_

_Héo ne cúthe hire heortan lust_"

The words rang over the silent crowd. Freyja the Healer's bier was laid to rest amongst the other graves at the foot of Edoras' hill. Frinan scooped up a handful of dirt. Arìanna covered his fist with her fingers, and together, they sprinkled the first piece of earth over their grandmother. As the crowd began to disperse, and the grave-diggers began to shovel on more earth, Arìanna wept openly. Still gripping her brother's hand, she started to sing, in a clear, sweet voice, and Elvish lamentation.

"_Ar sindarnoriello caita mornie,_

_Ar ilye tier undulave lumbule..._"

People paused to hear the words, and, though they could not understand them, they felt touched. Frinan added his sombre voice. Éomer, standing at the back, felt his heart break as they watched the two lonely siblings beside the grave of their last relative. Arìanna was now healer, and Frinan was a soldier in the Prince's éored. He wondered how they held themselves tall. He looked to Théodred, whose eyes shone with tears, his arm about Léola's shoulders. Théodred looked at him.

"Freyja treated my mother and my father for many a year," he whispered, stealing a glance at those who passed him. "And, yet, neither are present at her funeral." He shook his head. "Let me ask you something, cousin."

"Anything," Éomer said gravely. Théodred leant in.

"Let Arìanna eat at the Meduseld table. Watch her. She's not ready. Gríma's poison is much for naught but an apprentice."


	4. The Feast

**Four**

Before I go further, disclaimer! I don't own any of the characters apart from those of my own making. Also, I have taken some inspiration from the films to supplement the bits Tolkien was vague on, but I don't own any of that either.

_A note on the name "Nienna"._ She is one of the Valar, a lady of pity and mourning, who grieves for the hurts done to Middle-Earth. _(Silmarillion)._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

She had never seen a table so rich. The carved wood groaned under the weight of the food. Down the centre were tall black candlesticks with yellow, lit stumps of wax in. A fire blazed in the hearth, with a stag roasting on a spit above it, giving off the heavy scent of venison. On bronze and copper platters were meats of every kind – honey-roast chicken, minted lamb, rabbit stew in black pots, salted pork, sliced ham and even a suckling pig. Freshly baked loaves of bread were still warm on the inside of the crumbly crust, and there were dishes of golden butter, homemade jam, honey and marmalade. Eighteen lumps of different cheeses littered the table amongst baskets of green and red apples and ripe pears. There were dishes of varying vegetables all steaming temptingly, and tureens of leek and potato soup. There were jugs of water, flagons of ale and decanters of wine. Arìanna had never seen such a feast.

"Arìanna," came a familiar deep voice. She turned and smiled at Éomer. He was dressed in his royal armour – a long dark green tunic, heavily embroidered, a brown breast plate, inlaid with silver, and brown leather gloves with gold stitching. These gloves he removed as he proffered his hand. "Come, sit near me. We can talk." She dipped her knees in curtsey and took his hand, feeling the roughness of his callused palm. She looked for Frinan, but he was sitting with some of his comrades from the éored, and they were in deep discussion.

This was the funeral feast for Freyja. And though this was not a custom, it was not shunned by even the most dour of the Rohirrim. Théoden was at the feast, but he did not eat, nor move, nor speak unless it was to his companion – Gríma. He sat in his ornate chair, a shrivelled, frail old man, his eyes clouded as if in blindness, and his gnarled hands clutching the wooden arms of his chair. After the food had been eaten – in most – servants came and cleared away the platters, replacing them with twelve almond cakes, studded with raisins, laced with honey and topped with a sprinkling of cinnamon. There were also jam rolls, jugs of fresh cream, dishes of mixed nuts and seeds, baskets of more fresh fruit, a huge sponge cake doused with thick, golden syrup, warmed slices of bread covered in butter and marmalade and sprinkled with sugar then baked to a delicious brown. More wine and ale was brought forth, and Arìanna's chalice was filled with more burgundy-coloured wine. She was offered freshly-made pastries, with a flaky base and creamy centre. As she took one, she turned to Éomer.

"Éomer. You wished me to sit and talk with you, yet you have not spoken one word all night. Are you well?"

"Of course," Éomer smiled, drinking deep his mug of ale. "I… I just have no conversation to make." He watched her fair face closely, and saw the weariness on her forehead and under her eyes. There were grey shadows beneath the iridescent jewels. He forced a smile. "But speak we shall! We can speak of everything you wish." So they did, deep in conversation they went, unaware of those around them – not noticing the watchful eyes of Théodred, nor the hopeful glance of Éowyn, Éomer's sister.

The food was eventually cleared away and the table split into two parts, each half pulled to either side of the room to make space in the middle. Arìanna rose, her flushed cheeks grave again, and Frinan came to her side so that they stood before Théoden in his throne. Next to Frinan, Théodred stood, taking his father's place as the older man could not move from his seat. A servant handed them a silver goblet filled to the brim with bright red wine. First Théodred clasped it, and announced loudly;

"This drink we sup in remembrance of thee, may you rest in happiness in the Great Halls Beyond." He took a sip as those in the halls raised their drinks and said;

"Rest in happiness." Théodred passed the cup to Frinan, who then said;

"In our hearts we grieve for thee, as deep as Nienna." He took a sip, and passed the cup on to Arìanna as everyone announced;

"Grievance." Arìanna then spoke confidently, but her hands shook and her eyes were closed.

"And in our hearts, we hold remembrance close, oh loved one. We shall meet, in the Great Halls Beyond, but we do not forget thy memory." She took a sip.

"We will not forget thee," came the reply in unison, and everyone drank deep.

The evening grew into night, and soon people began to disperse, their stomachs full and heads spinning with drink. Arìanna left silently, donning her cloak of blue-grey and lifting the hood. She waited for Frinan on the out-step of Meduseld, that rested on the peak of the hill, brooding over the rest of Edoras. She looked out over the plains, the green grasses now shadows, and the mountains black peaks. She sighed, hugging her arms about her to trap the warmth that the seeking wind strived to take from her. Arìanna heard movement and turned. It was Éomer. His cheeks were flushed with the heat of the hall and drink. He stood next to her, not saying anything, but looking out over the plains. His hands were tucked behind his back.

"I am sorry for your loss, Arìanna."

"Thank you. I will miss her."

"As will many," he answered, and after a pause, added: "I hope that your new duties as a healer, as increased as they are, will not draw you away from the stables. I like your company in the mornings." He smiled shyly at her.

"Nothing could draw me from Caradien. Nor our conversations," she replied softly, as someone stumbled down the stair, on their way to bed. Éomer reached out and touched her cheek with fingertips. Slowly, he leant in, his eyes closing. Instinctively, Arìanna shut her eyes and tilted her head to him. Their lips collided in the softest of kisses, brushing each other for no longer than a second until they were disturbed by the rowdy arrival of Frinan. Arìanna, starting at Frinan's shout of;

"Arìanna! Come! Homeward bound are we!" stepped abruptly away, her eyes flashing a glance to Éomer's before she averted her gaze.

"Good night, Éomer."


End file.
